


It Has Always Been

by thewatsonat221B



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas evening, Domestic, Happy Ending, M/M, Reichenbach memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 11:45:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1093522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewatsonat221B/pseuds/thewatsonat221B
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the guests have gone home, John tidies up around the flat and gets lost in a few memories of the first Christmas without Sherlock. (happy ending)</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Has Always Been

The edges of John’s fingertips were cold against his skin as he rubbed his tired eyes. The last hours of Christmas were dying down, the fire had begun to fade out without John noticing, but the sitting room of 221B was still warm from the guests that had only left moments earlier. John hadn’t been one to throw many parties on his own, but he was rather pleased on how this one had gone, and convinced himself that tidying up now would be a bit easier than in the morning.

Music still played at a low volume through the flat, and though the songs were mostly contemporary Christmas pop that he wouldn’t normally listen to, John hummed along under his breath anyway. Christmas crackers had been strewn about the sitting room, and John knew he’d be finding bits of them for days yet as he and Greg had had a boisterous tug of war with the crackers after dinner. John glanced up at the fireplace mantel and gave a small smile to the skull sitting there, which was wearing an orange paper crown.

The kitchen seemed to have all manner of dishes stacked on any available surface and to amuse himself, John tried to discern which wine glass had been used by Molly and which was Mrs Hudson’s, based on the lipstick marks on the side of the glass. He was no Sherlock though, and though he held the glasses up to the light, John couldn’t be one hundred per cent certain that his guess was right.

After putting most of the dishes in a neat pile to be washed in the morning, John wandered back into the sitting room to start turning off lights and music. There was a small tree in the corner of the room this year, propped up on old chemistry textbooks and decorated sparsely with a few ornaments and fairy lights. John had put the tree up with Mrs Hudson a few days before, half listening as she described the origins of each ornament and what memories she had attached to it. It wasn’t a bad little tree though, and John thought maybe he’d see about getting Mrs Hudson an ornament for Christmas next year. The thought whisked out of his mind in an instant though, as John noted the plastic sprig of holly and ivy that had been nestled into the top part of the tree.

His hand trembled slightly in the air as he reached up to touch it and ensure it was really there. John swallowed roughly as his finger caught on the edges of the ivy leaf, and he blinked quickly to keep his eyes clear and focused as his mind pictured that same sprig of plastic decoration sitting where John had placed it last year atop of Sherlock’s grave. Without meaning to (or wanting to), John could suddenly taste the bitter evergreen air that had filled the cemetery, and feel the automatic shift in his feet to compensate for the uneven ground in front of Sherlock’s gravestone. He lifted his hand to his eyes, swiping at the moisture that had appeared against his will.

Other memories rushed into his head; waking up alone in a bleak, cold flat on Christmas morning, picking his sister up at some dingy pub hours later and having a right good yell at her to excise his own demons, dripping dirty London slush all over the stairs as he trudged back up into the flat, wearing Sherlock’s dressing gown as he sat on the couch and cried while a violin Christmas record played late into the night—

“You’re thinking about last year again.”

John flinched at the sound of Sherlock’s voice and he took a steady breath as his mind tilted and the sitting room came back into focus: dreary, cold greys into warm ambers and fire warmth.

“Can’t,” John started, forcing a cough to clear his throat and not turning away from the tree until he was sure his eyes were clear. “Can’t avoid it. It was the worse Christmas I’d had since coming home.”

John had seen the many varied expressions of Sherlock Holmes, and guilt was not an emotion he displayed very often. It was a look that John had received a few times, and only after Sherlock had done something particularly bone-headed.

“John, I am…”

“I know,” John said, holding up his hand to stop his flatmate. “And here I thought I’d get through Christmas without bringing that up again.”

John laughed derisively at himself and reached to pick up two paper plates from the side table near the tree. He didn’t check if his hand was shaking, didn’t need to, and he knew that by keeping his hands busy it would be less noticeable.

“The party was far less annoying this year,” Sherlock finally offered, and John knew it was Sherlock’s way of apologising despite John telling him it wasn’t necessary.

“Yeah,” John agreed, staring at the radio on the bookshelf. “Ta for not being arse to Molly again.”

“Leave it on,” Sherlock told him, pushing his shoulder against the doorframe he was leaning on in order to walk toward John. Wham!’s _Last Christmas_ had just reached the first chorus, but John barely registered the singing as Sherlock approached and gently pried the plates out of John’s hands. Sherlock’s cheeks were slightly flushed, though whether from the heat of the room or his glasses of wine John couldn’t tell, and he’d obviously been playing with his hair as the curls were much floppier on one side of his head than the other.

“Sherlock,” John started, licking his bottom lip as he tried to sort out this new expression on Sherlock’s face. The licking was a habit he’d had since childhood, and not one he’d ever tried to wean himself out of, despite the smirk Sherlock gave him every time he took lip balm out of his pocket for his dry lips.

“I spent last Christmas in Hamburg,” Sherlock started, taking one of John’s hands into his own, and slipping the other around John’s waist. “At the Gerhart-Hauptmann-Platz, where the market was.”

John was once again slightly amused by the warmth of Sherlock’s hands, as he’d yet to figure out how his slender flat mate always managed to throw off such heat. As such, it took him a minute to notice out that they were dancing, so natural was it for John to follow where Sherlock led.

“The market was closed, of course,” Sherlock continued, as if dancing with John was an everyday occurrence. He spoke against the side of John’s head, just above John’s ear, and John smiled to himself as they slow danced and Sherlock talked.  “It was rainy and windy, and I was waiting for the second sniper to show himself. Standing under the eaves of a closed up wooden market hut, trying not to step in either icy cold puddles or discarded sweet wrappers, lest I give myself away. I stood there for four hours.”

“Sounds like we both had a rubbish Christmas last year,” John mumbled, continuing to dance though the song had changed. He looked up in question as Sherlock pulled back a little.

“I was successful. Blackwood strolled through the square just before noon and I did away with him,” Sherlock said, and John could tell that he didn’t understand that John’s definition of ‘rubbish Christmas’ had nothing to do with apprehending one of Moriarty’s henchmen.

“Right,” John agreed, squeezing Sherlock’s hand to get them dancing again and only barely managing not to trip on a book that was sticking out from under Sherlock’s chair. “But you weren’t happy.”

Sherlock seemed to ponder that for a minute, and John let him. Most times that John asked Sherlock a question about feelings, he snapped out an immediate answer without thought. Upon occasion though, Sherlock took the time to try to sort out what he was actually feeling. John didn’t need to take the time for himself, as he doubted ever forgetting feeling so absolutely wrecked the year before.

“I wasn’t home,” Sherlock finally answered, which was enough for John.

_I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas_ came up next on the radio, and John closed his eyes in contentment as he rested his head against Sherlock’s shoulder.

“So this is us now?” John asked, breathing in the scent of home that was Sherlock.

“Hasn’t it always been?”

_Yes_ , John thought, recalling with warm embarrassment all those times he’d denied being Sherlock’s other half, when the absence of the last year had taught John that that’s exactly what he had been all along.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, so first fic for this fandom. Guess I'm testing the waters to see if I've got the characters. Feel free to let me know if I'm off!


End file.
